Late last week my cousin called to the house while I was out and left a message saying he wanted me to attend a play with him that coming Friday night. My initial query to the messenger was to confirm that he did say the word ‘play’. When it was confirmed that it was indeed a play he wanted me to go to my next thought was to ponder just how many people did he ask to go before he thought to ask me and how on earth were that many people otherwise engaged. The play was called Tom Crean and a quick glance through the small paragraph dedicated to it in The Irish Times’ ‘The Ticket’ supplement revealed this less-than-inspiring note:

Aidan Dooley’s one-man performance returns to tell the heroic tale of Crean, the only man to serve with Scott and Shackleton on three famous expeditions.

My first impression was this would be a weird, super-artsy take on one man’s struggle in the harshest environment on earth. Maybe he would try to portray the mental anguish such an expedition would no doubt conjure. Not wanting to disappoint my cousin and knowing I had just been delivered an excuse for a few pints in Dublin I agreed to go and promised to keep as open a mind as possible. Theatre is not something I would ever, and I mean ever, think of spending any time going to – probably to my detriment – so I wasn’t expecting much. At best I thought I’d learn something about an Irishman I ought to know more about given his place in history, at worst it would be 90 odd minutes of downtime in an otherwise enjoyable night out in Dublin.

Having thrown our pints into us we made our way to our seats near the back (and more importantly I thought at the time – near the toilets) and waited for the show to start. First a faint light from a lantern on an otherwise pitch-black stage appeared and made its way to the centre as a background of whistling antarctic winds made for the soundtrack. ‘Here we go’ I thought, ‘an artsy start’. The man on stage set the lantern down and stoked the imaginary fire in the centre of his camp. He then turned to the audience and began to speak in a traditional wesht Ireland accent introducing himself as Tom Crean, a boson in the Royal Navy. He then cracked a joke. Then another. Then another. Turns out this man wasn’t so much here to act as to tell a story, a story with a quintessential Irish take on the Royal Navy’s expeditions to the South Pole. Where he wasn’t being informative he was being funny and where he wasn’t be funny he was spilling out emotion about the losses and hardships ‘he’ had witnessed on the expeditions. I was enthralled. I had been completely sideswiped by my own brain’s ignorance to all things theatre. He wove out two stories, describing two of his expeditions with both witty and grisly detail, speaking about horrifying situations in a way only a dry-witted Irishman could. He gave everyone in the auditorium a charming history lesson they had never been happier to receive and as I walked out I made a point of stopping my cousin and thanking him profusely for asking me to come along and telling him that he should take pride in the fact that he changed a very stubborn mind.

A day or two later and I found myself doing something equally strange, at least by my standards. I went to a GAA football match. What’s the big deal? Well, I kind of don’t like gaelic football. In fact I’m often quite vocal against it for numerous reasons dominated by the reputation for GAA clubs banning their players from participating in other sports and for GAA fans’ propesity to slate soccer players as a means to elevate their own type to higher stature. Yes, that premier league player went down crying like a sack of potatoes, but then again he doesn’t spend his weekends stacking sacks of potatoes like your beloved GAA player does, does he? Soccer players are built for speed, agility and technique in the majority of cases. GAA players are built for strength, power and endurance. Different strokes, different folks – I never feel that threatened about being/liking a soccer player that I have to slate players of other sports and mean it. I’ve oftentimes tried winding GAA fans up with my claims that GAA players are just poor boxers who can run after 16 pints of Guinness on a Saturday night but I know that to be far from the truth. To be standing with a number of proper club GAA fans most of whom had at least long-time friends and at most immediate family playing in front of us was a change of scenery for me. For the next 70 odd minutes I found myself powerless to prevent my interest peaking in what played out before me. I am a sports-fan after all so I would naturally observe and interpret what the game offerred up, but it’s a rare occasion I’m watching with people who have a blood-connection with the team. The nervous twitches and the emotion with which every encouraging call or angry tirade towards the opposition (or referee) were somehow endearing to witness. The group I was with contained fans of both teams which meant inevitably half of the group was destined to be elated and the other half distraught. Both sides were calling the game as only they as fans could see it. Both took their turn in declaring the opposition to be the dirtier side and quietly made comments about opposition players to the point where anything a little more harshly stated could have resulted in me turning referee in the crowd. My attempts at light-hearted humour by playing the ignorant soccer fan (corner! hand-ball! etc.) got old quick with my small audience as the game approached the business end. As one team stretched out a lead the result became inevitable. One friend conceding it was a lost cause, the other too cautious to admit victory for fear of an epic collapse in the final few minutes. I could see the barely-contained delight at the final whistle on one side only to turn and see the utter abjection on my other side. One half of the group ran to go and join the celebrations pitch-side without even saying good-bye, the other half and myself made their way back to the car offering up the proud but painful admission that the best team had won and that their team only had themselves to blame (and they had in fairness).

While the rest of the world was busy coming up with ideas for something new and unusual to dress up as for the weekend that was in it I was learning I should branch out a little more into new and (to me) unusual things. I’m sure there are plenty that scoff at the idea that theatre and a GAA match are unusual, but in the context of my life it had been years since I had willingly done either despite having the chance to on plenty of occasions. I’m going to try my best to look out for similar opportunities in future and try to capture my thoughts the next time my brain tries to utter a no to a strange and unusual invite. I urge all others like me to do the same. To everyone else who tries new things on a regular basis I now hold a new-found admiration for you and your weekends, because I just had a fantastic one.

Nothing, however, is worse that getting a call from that person that *thinks* they know it all. They assume that just because they can figure out how to series link the X Factor and set the clock on their iPhone they are suddenly network engineers. Cue 30 minutes of them clicking everything they can possibly click in a furious effort to prove themselves as a competent PC troubleshooter. Instead of just listening to my relatively simple instructions, that I’ve previously rehearsed 500 times earlier that morning, they blaze on through ignoring my every word until it gets to the stage when I have to actually ask them why they called if they seem to have it all figured out. The silent moment when they realise you’re insulting them in as polite a manner as possible is the most satisfying moment of my day. To be asked “are you calling me stupid?” only to reply with “actually sir, I’m trying to avoid it” is truly a bright moment in an otherwise dull day.

It’s being in situations like which result in me being an extremely ‘good’ caller whenever I find myself in a role reversal. When I call a company for help/information I’m polite, courteous and most importantly I listen. At the very least I have the account/reference/ID number at the ready. This concept of preparedness is something that in my experience is lost on the general public. My call centre has a pre-recorded message asking customers to have their account number ready and yet many, most even, claim to have never received one. They basically admit to having called someone up, handed over their bank and credit card details, full name and address and telephone number and not asked or insisted that they be given some kind of reference number. And when provided with the reference number they discard it like it means nothing. People fail to grasp that when you call a company which likely has thousands of customers you are not Mary Murphy, you are not Patrick O’Shea,  you are a serial number. You are a sequence of numbers and letters from 3 to 20 characters long. It is what makes you unique and what identifies you to a company. If you are going to complain about call centres and the amount of time it takes to get through then the least you can do is be ready with the information we require when you ‘finally’ get to speak to ‘someone who isn’t a robot’. And on that note, a voice recording is not a ‘robot’, and neither am I. You fucking cretin. Ahem.

So if you are reading this let me give you some insight into what you can do to make the whole experience a little better.

Dial the correct number – Companies have lots of phone numbers. My company has a number for Sales, a number for Customer Care, a number for Installations and a number for Tech Support. I spend a vast majority of my day acting like a receptionist transferring calls around because Joe that wanted to check if we received his cheque pressed 3 for Tech Support. By failing to take stock to what the recorded voice on the phone was saying you are risking queuing twice. If time is of the essence take the 30 seconds to ensure you have the right number and are selecting the right queue because 20 minutes later when you get through to me in Tech Support and you want to know why we took 100 euro out of your bank account this month I’m only going to apologetically tell you that you have to hold for Customer Care as I secretly do a happy dance on the other end of the phone celebrating my ‘freebie’.

Expect delays during rush hour – if you work 9-5 and you find yourself with the few minutes you thought would be enough at lunch time or when you got home that evening think of the amount of other civilians that are in the exact same mindset as you. Think of good times to visit a bank or a credit union – the same principles apply for call centres. First thing in the morning, lunch times and last thing in the afternoon/evening at easily THE worst times to try to do business. This goes for most businesses. My barber opens at 9. By 9:10 there are 7 people waiting for a haircut. I go at 10. I rarely have to wait – in fact my barber is usually waiting for me. Bear this in mind when you need to call a call centre. If it is impossible for you to call outside of the busy times then expect to wait. Don’t be angry, don’t be impatient. It is a queue. You joined it later than the people in front of you. C’est la vie.

Be ready – I touched on this above, but if you really want to help or need something sorted and sorted quickly then have your information ready. If it’s tech support or other actual product-related service you need to have access to it. Calling me from work to tell me your broadband at home isn’t working will only waste your time. Be at home, have your computer and everything switched on and ready to go. If the house is full of kids/family/friends then call another time. The 10 mins it might take to fix something can double or treble if you are not ready to discuss the matter or if you are only catching every second word because your 5 kids in the background are playing a game of ‘make the dog bark’. Remember that modern telephones and mobiles can pick up most if not all of the background noise and it is amplified the opposite end in my headset – your little Johnnie having a freak attack watching spongebob at high volume will drown you right out.

Listen – You called me remember? You need my help/information. If you have a problem, listen to what the person on the phone has to say. No matter what you think you believe, they know more about it than you. This might be the first time you’ve seen this problem. For the person on the other end they’ve probably seen it 10 times that morning and it’s not even lunchtime. Often I get people who assume they know what I’m about to say. Before you butt in and try to answer the question before it’s asked try to listen.

Check the simple things, twice – Sometimes we have to go through the easy stuff first. We can’t assume anything. If we ask you the simple things it serves only to ensure everyone is on the same page. Clichés like checking if it’s plugged in, switched on or connected exist because such oversights have been around since electricity was discovered. Don’t be impatient and presumptive, be cooperative and this will all be over soon. Also, calling someone on your phone to tell them your phone isn’t working reserves you a special place in hell.

Don’t get angry/abusive – This is quite possibly the very worst thing you can ever do to someone in a call centre. Imagine someone who has ever sat shouting and screaming abuse at you. Imagine how they are spitting pure rage and anger directly at you and only you. Now imagine you’ve never met them before and imagine that person needs your help. If call centre agents have one common agenda it’s that all abusive customers must die. Anyone who feels a good idea is to raise their voice and insult someone to get them to help them is severely delusional. I promise you. If you fuck me off and call me a cunt over the phone I will not want to help you. In fact I won’t even want to talk to you. I will not suddenly jump up and bow to your will – in most cases I would probably do everything within my power to ensure that your frustration and anger is prolonged. If you ever want to know why you didn’t get a callback from that person whose mother you insulted over the phone it’s because of this. I wouldn’t rush back to help an abusive scumbag on the street, I’m not going to rush back to help you. It’s akin to abusing a bouncer when they refuse entry to a nightclub – they weren’t going to let you in then, and you’re only proving it was a wise decision now.

There are many other call centre do’s and don’ts but the above few give you an idea of what it’s like to be speaking to the 40th person that day after a long shift only for them to not know their own address while they send one of the 6 kids to start booting up their PC in the middle of dinner at 5 to 6 on a Friday evening. It makes me thankful that video calling hasn’t taken off for call centres because I’m not sure anyone would want to see a grown man cry.

Continuing on in the Top 50 stead, I dug out a documentary that I have been meaning to watch for the last year or so but never got around to. ‘Inside Job’ has Matt Damon calmly filling us in on the ring leaders who created the circus that is unregulated (some might say unbridled) Investment Banking on Wall Street. And how those people ultimately caused the economic crisis we as a planet are experiencing today. And how those same people have pretty much been rewarded with jobs in President Obama’s administration as economic advisors and Federal Reserve commissioners. While the documentary itself is not as good as the feature on the rise and fall of Enron – ‘The Smartest Guys in the Room’- which gave a real insight into the astounding practices amongst Enron staff through taped phone calls and leaked documents, it highlights just how corruption and cronyism has been at an all-time high for the last three US Presidential Administrations.

Since I was already angry and dumfounded by the actions of corporate America I decided I’d keep the ball rolling and follow up with the documentary ‘GasLand’. GasLand looks at the environmental damage a relatively new form of natural gas drilling can cause in populated areas. The process of Hydraulic Fracturing, or fracking as it is known basically involves pumping a shed-load of chemicals into a large hole in the ground and pressurizing it to cause a small earthquake which releases natural gas trapped in pockets of shale rock. A relatively ingenious method of releasing natural resources most would agree – apart from the fact that it poisons every well and water supply in the immediate and intermediate vicinity. Gasland begins with a guy with a video camera receiving a 100,000 dollar offer to lease his land for fracking. He loves his land, it’s a nice place of trees, log cabins and babbling brooks so he wants to find out more information before he takes the money and runs. The next couple of hours is spent visiting people who can set their tap water on fire, have severe health issues from neuropathy to actual brain damage, and whose pets and livestock are dying a slow death from drinking from streams. Even though the narrator is a bit of a hippy all the evidence is there on camera that something seriously wrong is happening everywhere this fracking practice has been put to work and unsurprisingly it all boiled back to corrupt politicians who – get this – made an exemption for Oil and Gas drilling companies in the Clean Water Act and Clean Air Act These acts prevent any other industry from operating in a manner which threatens the supply of clean water or air to the population. (Un)shockingly enough the Bush administration passed the Energy Bill with the clause that excludes his beloved oil and gas companies.

After finishing GasLand and having far too much outrage flowing through my veins I did a bit more reading on it and googled ‘fracking’. While I had heard it mentioned before in relation to Ireland I was surprised to see ‘fracking in Ireland’ as the top suggestion. Clicking trough I found that an area around Lough Allen – which is a lake on Ireland’s largest and most tourist-oriented waterway; the river Shannon – has been  targeted for hydraulic fracturing. Turns out some Australian firm have been given permission to survey the site for prospective fracturing and that as much €120 Billion worth of gas could be buried in the shale. Knowing Ireland’s previous history of negotiating gas contracts, such as the corrib gas contract, Ireland will probably take in about €12.63 and a voucher for a case of Fosters for such a deal.

Putting these two facts together in my head I realized that while environmental
regulations in Ireland (and Europe as a whole) are likely to be infinitelymore stringent than in the US to ensure the environmental impact could be lessened, there’s serious money to be made in allowing the drilling. Unfortunately Ireland finds itself in dire need of money, lots of money, about €120 billion should be enough to dig us out of this mess. While I would like to think that the Irish government is not foolish enough to risk Ireland’s main tourist attraction, I’m an Irish person so I know only too well how foolish and corrupt they can be. Fine Gael are of the ilk that reverse bans on stag and fox hunting as per their manifesto for election, so what’s a few hundred acres of scenic rivers, lakes and wildlife if they can proclaim to the be the party that saved Ireland from the brink of economic armageddon? I reckon Leitrim folk are going to know pretty soon what those people over in Corrib have been feeling for the last 5 years.

Now I need to go and shower because I feel dangerously hippy-ish in drafting this sort of eco-conscious propaganda. Shudder.

I don’t have to tell you things are bad. Everybody knows things are bad. It’s a depression. Everybody’s out of work or scared of losing their job. The dollar buys a nickel’s worth, banks are going bust, shopkeepers keep a gun under the counter. Punks are running wild in the street and there’s nobody anywhere who seems to know what to do, and there’s no end to it.

We know the air is unfit to breathe and our food is unfit to eat, and we sit watching our TVs while some local newscaster tells us that today we had fifteen homicides and sixty-three violent crimes, as if that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

We know things are bad – worse than bad. They’re crazy.

It’s like everything everywhere is going crazy, so we don’t go out anymore. We sit in the house, and slowly the world we are living in is getting smaller, and all we say is: ‘Please, at least leave us alone in our living rooms. Let me have my toaster and my TV and my steel-belted radials and I won’t say anything. Just leave us alone.’

Well, I’m not gonna leave you alone. I want you to get MAD! I don’t want you to protest. I don’t want you to riot – I don’t want you to write to your congressman because I wouldn’t know what to tell you to write. I don’t know what to do about the depression and the inflation and the Russians and the crime in the street. All I know is that first you’ve got to get mad.

(shouting)
You’ve got to say: ‘I’m a human being, god-dammit! My life has value!’

So I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window. Open it, and stick your head out, and yell:

‘I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore!!’..

- Howard Beale, Network (1976).

He claims that mankind has not benefitted from the Space Shuttle program and goes on to say that we could not, and should not try to send a manned mission to Mars. I’m not going to dissect and respond to every mis-informed and ignorant part of his rant. Instead I’m going to tell you why I find the end of the shuttle program to be quite sad and yet quite inspiring.

Every day I’m inadvertantly reminded of the benefits of the space shuttle without ever really being conscious of it. Every time I switch on my PC my NASA-inspired background theme coughs up a new image from the Hubble telescope for me to gaze at. I’ve lost many an hour flicking through them picking my favourite (currently this one of the Carina Nebula) before getting perplexed at how such things can exist in the Universe. After the feeling of being even more insigificant passes, I move on and forget it for another day. Hubble was put in the sky by the Space Shuttle program. Unfortunately the designers messed it up first time around and installed a faulty mirror which left Hubble out of focus. Another lengthy repair job carried out by the Shuttle Program later though and it was ready to start photographing the cosmos. Within a short time Hubble had answered many of the biggest questions that faced cosmologists and physicists everywhere including the age of the Universe, the presence of the radiation background and the confirmation of the existence of black holes, which until Hubble were an unconfirmed theory. Many might ask what direct benefit Hubble and it’s observations have had on every day life and you need only look at your mobile phone for answers. The Lithium-Ion battery was developed for the Hubble and it’s off-shoot is the reason you can fling birds at pigs for hours on end now. Many modern cameras and camera sensors are descendants of the Hubble sensors and it was one of the first pieces of technology to use a memory card. Hubble has provided the kind of imaging and subsequent knowlegde that Gallileo would have killed for when he first cast his telescope skywards. Without the Space Shuttle there would be no Hubble, or it would be launched only around now such was the lack of alternative space vehicles which could carry such a large payload until now.

As a result of the (delayed) success of Hubble the Space Shuttle was granted a new lease of life with the announcement of a permanent manned structure in space – the International Space Station. Again, such a project was only possible due to the large payload the Shuttle could offer and the ISS has had major benefits to society and in more direct ways. Their observation of weather patterns, climate, sea currents and polar ice cap activity has provided much of the data necessary to identify and document climate change. Microbiology experiments in zero-gravity have brought critical advancements in stem-cell research and medicine which would not have been possible in a gravitational environment. Unfortunately, the ISS while being the Space Shuttle’s saviour, it was also ultimately the Shuttle’s grim reaper. With the ISS complete, and post-flight checks on each Shuttle and turnaround taking too long and costing too much President George W. Bush ordered the program closed for reasons of cost and loss of life.

The loss of the Challenger in 1986 due to a (previously highlighted and ignored) flaw in rubber seal in a rocket booster and the subsequent loss of the Columbia in 2003 due to (previously highlighted and ignored) damage to the heatshield upon launch were the first two nails in the Space Shuttle’s coffin and a terrible and, as it turned out, avoidable loss of life. I can’t help but get the feeling though from the countless documentaries I’ve watched about the Shuttle that the astronauts who volunteer to pilot and crew the Space Shuttle are aware of the risks and almost live on the risk. Much as a marine trains to fight in war these pilots and scientists train to operate in a traditionally-unkind, high-risk environment. Yuri Gargarin, the first man in space was a Russian fighter and test pilot. He eventually died in a plane crash 7 years later. The Astronauts who man the Shuttle and any space exploration/scientific mission get nothing but admiration and amazement from me in that they choose to do their job knowing the risks but they get to see things that most of us will never see and experience things like zero gravity that our minds cannot even contemplate here on hard ground. The best quote I could find that illustrates the sense of enlightenment and awareness that astronauts possess goes as follows;

“You develop an instant global consciousness, a people orientation, an intense dissatisfaction with the state of the world, and a compulsion to do something about it. From out there on the moon, international politics look so petty. You want to grab a politician by the scruff of the neck and drag him a quarter of a million miles out and say, ‘Look at that, you son of a bitch.” – Apollo 14 astronaut Edgar Mitchell

Using costs and risk to justify the ceasing of exploration and frontier-mapping is a poor reflection on the state of the human race. While the global recession rages on and costs become ever-more scrutinised people so easily forget that it was the constant pressure applied to science by those such as NASA that fed the wonder and amazement of kids like me. The boom that pre-empted the bust was because of things like the Shuttle program that showed people that our race is advancing and capable of things that only one or two generations previous couldn’t even imagine and drove a baby-boom into college to study science, math and business. As the Space Shuttle bows out after 30 long years of being the work-horse of modern science and cosmology with it goes a certain amount of wonder and awe that I kept over from my childhood. For me it was THE symbol of modern technology and at that it was just a giant space truck that carried the magic-making equipment that scientists now depend on. The idea of putting a human on Mars is the next natural step and I hope beyond hope that it will happen in my life-time so I can experience a ‘moon-landing-moment’ like my parents and grand-parents did as it’s probably the last time the entire World held it’s breath at once and focused on one event. The back-up speech that Nixon had prepared in case the lunar module failed to lift off from the moon shows that considerable risk must be overcome to achieve the highest goals. If they are looking for volunteers I’d ask them where can I sign, even if a speech such follows might some day be written about me.

“Fate has ordained that the men who went to the moon to explore in peace will stay on the moon to rest in peace. These brave men, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin, know that there is no hope for their recovery. But they also know that there is hope for mankind in their sacrifice.

“These two men are laying down their lives in mankind’s most noble goal: the search for truth and understanding. They will be mourned by their families and friends; they will be mourned by their nation; they will be mourned by the people of the world; they will be mourned by a Mother Earth that dared send two of her sons into the unknown.

“In their exploration, they stirred the people of the world to feel as one; in their sacrifice, they bind more tightly the brotherhood of man. In ancient days, men looked at stars and saw their heroes in the constellations. In modern times, we do much the same, but our heroes are epic men of flesh and blood.

“Others will follow, and surely find their way home. Man’s search will not be denied. But these men were the first, and they will remain the foremost in our hearts.

“For every human being who looks up at the moon in the nights to come will know that there is some corner of another world that is forever mankind.”

Things I’ve learned about this week thanks to my incessant clicking include:

Some scientists hid an event in time recently. As in, something happened, but it didn’t happen because time was made skip over it. Whatever they hid lasted only a tiny fraction of a second but anyone remotely interested in how this entire universe works and relates to itself would know this is a pretty big deal. Seeing things like this assures me that there some parts of the human race worth saving given how brilliant a bunch of minds this kind of stuff requires, but then I realise that those same minds will probably just save themselves and most likely cause the deaths of the rest of us brain-dead zombies through one of their scientific breakthroughs.

I learned the M1 and M50 are to get more toll points to raise revenue for the government. I’d actually like to be surprised at this but at this stage nothing about Ireland and the struggling economy surprises me any more. Yet again the thousands driving to work are going to get charged upwards of 10 to 20 a week extra just to do that. Bus companies running the same routes will have to pass on that charge too meaning the taxpayers get shafted again. You take another 80 or so a month off a minimum/low wage worker and I honestly wouldn’t blame them for giving up their jobs, selling their cars and drawing the dole for the next 5 million years it’ll take to fix this mess.

I discovered a very funny comic that perfectly describes meeting that person you almost know, and not having a clue what to say to them or how to get away from them. Me being a guy who finds forced, contrived conversation with my barber the most horrific 15 minutes of my month, I got a good laugh out of this.

This one is very technical and geeky in parts but if you strip that away I actually found the story of Stuxnet to be one of the most intriguing industrial sabotage stories I’ve ever read. What makes this story special is that it’s very real and as a result it scared and fascinated me in equal measure. It reads like a Tom Clancy novel without the ridiculous reams of over-descriptive nonsense but with the insight and genuine feel international espionage that Clancy can bring in spades.

I learned that Heineken tastes like ditchwater in Weatherspoons, Newcastle. I also learned that Newcastle is a helluva place to get drunk for a solid three days but since it was a stag weekend, what happens in Newcastle stays in Newcastle.

Finally I found this video that someone painstakingly made by mixing a huge chunk of a favourite game of mine, a lot of time and a dash of genius that ensure you’ll probably watch it ten times to fully concentrate on each individual character while you laugh your heart out. I’m profoundly jealous that while some dude can come up with something like this in the last few months all I could manage was one poxy little blog. Enjoy.

The problem with ‘Exhbitions’ is that they aren’t full of exhibits in the true sense of the word. At least not by me interpretation. When I think exhibit, I think a museum – natural or modern history – it doesn’t matter. The function of the exhibit is to increase the viewer’s knowledge of it’s subject, to educate and present the facts and figures. Unfortunately for most commercial-minded exhibits this roughly translates into trying to hawk stuff. After passing 12 different stalls full of smartly-dressed businessmen trying to make their strikingly similar looking windows seem better than their competitors I came to the realisation that was very little in the way of facts and figures to be learned here. The best part of the entire show was trying to reverse-engineer the kitchen drawers that magically close themselves when you swing them vigorously back into their units. They appear ready to slam shut only for them to slow, stop and gently coax themselves into position. That this mechanism was the single-most intriguing thing within a huge outlay of hundreds of products only serves to highlight how shows like these seem fairly pointless.

Of the very few vendors I spoke to, few were willing to discuss any kind of drawback/unsuitability/limitation of their products – even where obvious, and even fewer still were willing to quote any kind of price unless you filled out a form with your address and phone number. For a Trade Show is was poor, for an exhibition it was utterly dire and I couldn’t help but wonder how much time and money all these struggling companies had spent on getting themselves floorspace and filling it up with their stuff. I mean fair enough, there were a few nice stalls done out with various models of wood-burning stoves, kitchens and doors which is all very good but by the time we’ve come to filling our house with that kind of stuff the ‘self building’ will hopefully have already taken place.

Alas, we were stuck collecting brochures and wandering around admiring some of the carcasses of a bygotten time of luxury – we spied a hot-tub for the bargain of only 14 grand, down from 20 grand if bought on the spot. I promised Claire that we’d instead choose a roof or perhaps two walls for the same price and I will blow bubbles in our regular bath tub. The over-hearing hot tub vendor smartly remarked “that’s a cheap roof son” to which I replied “it’ll keep us drier than your expensive hot tub”. We laughed politely at one another while I checked my exit strategy from his booth.

To sum up, after a drive to Belfast and few hours pounding the indoor area of King’s Hall (which is fecking massive btw), I’m still no wiser to the type of heating system I should stump up for. Oil/Gas have the advantage of being cheap to install, reasonably efficient and instant-on. They also tend to last (standard-issue boilers have been perfected over decades). Geothermal/Heat pumps are flaky in my opinion because what they might save you on fuel could just be transferred to your electricity bill and have arguably the biggest installation charge. Gassification/Pellet burning boilers are new and efficient – the amount of propaganda available on these is staggering but their high installation cost, reliance on a cheap supply of wood/pellets and thus-far unproven shelf-life have me second guessing their alleged advantages. My architect being a traditionalist doesn’t help – he’s all for oil/gas for the moment and recommends making the saving in the short term with installation costs and in ten/fifteen years time see how the neo-heating systems have panned out. The time for us to decide is approaching fast and it looks like I’m not going to get a straight answer from anyone about the correct decision – most likely because there is no correct decision. In saying that however, given the last couple of winters I will be hoping that whatever we decide on it will lead to having a warm and toasty home.

We are doing things a little differently. Almost a year ago (~ March, 2010) we received a very kind and generous offer from my girlfriend’s mother in the form of the option to develop the (recently deceased) granddad’s house and surrounding site. As two (relatively) young people both living in our respective homes this was welcomed with open arms. Cue excitement, relief, gratitude and above all else naivety over how smoothly the whole process would be. Big mistake.

Upon consulting an Architect he advised that there was limited scope due to the size of the site and that while we could certainly expand the existing house, the finished article would be modest enough. We were quite happy with this as the modest house we would have would beat the fancy house we don’t. Neither of us subscribe to the typical Irish mentality of your house somehow being a symbol of your identity.

Having settled on a design and succumbing to the temptation of furnishing it in our heads we were knocked back by our local council. Despite consulting the council as to what would be permissible in terms of extension size prior to the design stage, the goal-posts had since been moved by the time we went back with the design and they declared our site-size insufficient for any extension. Upon the architect’s recommendation we were to approach the adjacent landowner with an offer to buy the amount of land required to meet the council’s guidelines on site-size.

Having made contact the landowner was actually quite keen to deal which was a huge relief. Being of the mindset that this project was doomed from the get-go, to get any positive response from anyone was heartening. Negotiations took place and it moved away from a straight land-for-money transaction once the landowner realised we possessed something that he could benefit from – sight-lines. His empty field is just that – an empty field. Without 75m of clear line-of-sight for a driveway it would forever remain an empty field. To the left as you pull out of the field is 75m of clear tarmac to the right is a 5-foot stone wall – our 5-foot wall. The landowner proposed a deal that would mean we would get the required land in return for the removal of the wall which would turn his empty-field into a prime site. Win/Win for both parties but it meant further delays and hoop-jumping for us in terms of our project. We were a little apprehensive due of the additional legal and planning loose ends that would have to be tied up, but we were getting what we needed (the land) and paying for it with something we had not yet owned (the wall).

Fast forward a few months and a few hundred phone calls and meetings and we’ve reached the end of Design Phase Mk.II. We’ve settled on a slightly more spacious but still humble 3-bed dormer bungalow. Oil-fired CH, pre-cast concrete floors throughout with under-floor heating in the living space and radiators in the sleeping space. Decisions have been made more in terms of the constructions materials and plumbing rather than the layout of the house due to the skills of our Architect. He seems to know what we’re after and it’s a credit to him that most of what he came up with instantly appealed. For this we are thankful because it would have been just as easy to approach an architect that was not on the same page.

Having completed the drawings the next step was to approach the landowner with our plan for the wall, his sight-lines and the land required from him. The landowner wants us to approach the council with the entire plan to ensure all party’s needs are met (which is more than fair) and as such we are now waiting for him to approve the layout our Architect has drawn up so we can approach the roads.

In the mean time when it came to signing over the site into my girlfriend’s name we encountered an entirely separate and entirely large problem. Tax. Again, due to our inexperience and naivety in all things property, we had failed to foresee any problems in the transfer of the house and site to us. Any parent that wishes to gift a site to their siblings can do so without being taxed for offloading the land. However, this land must be entirely undeveloped – green-field only. If the land is developed, it is eligible for Capital Gains Tax. Now I know it is a largely futile and tiresome waste of time to complain about taxation but this is nonetheless heartbreaking for us. Because it is a gift, no money will be changing hands. My girlfriend’s mother was given the land over two decades ago by the grandfather and no money changed hands then either, yet the government dictates that my girlfriend’s mother’s capital is ‘gaining’ in this ‘transaction’ and therefore should be taxed based on the market value – not the sum paid – of the site. This could result in my girlfriend’s mother (and hence us, since we cannot leave her with a large bill in return for gifting us the site) with a tax bill upwards of 20 to 30 thousand euro – something we simply cannot come up with given that we require to have an 8% deposit for any mortgage we require for the build.

This takes me into the obligatory rant about how a young couple who hit the relative jackpot in terms of being able to take advantage of a spare site within the family are being stifled out of the prospect by illogical taxation. No one is gaining here but us yet it is my girlfriend’s mother who is being taxed for the privilege of being in a position to provide a site for a home for one of her offspring. This is especially ironic given that should the site not contain a house no taxation would apply – instead there is a house, a house that is to be levelled should the project go ahead*.

I hope to update this reasonably regularly throughout the project both to keep a record for myself and to educate anyone who is interested as to the pitfalls that a young person/couple could face when undertaking similar projects. If you have any experience or horror stories I would urge anyone to leave a comment.

I like snow. I really do. The old cliché of something being a winter wonderland holds true in my mind. On day zero when the snow first blew in I had to go to the shop to get supplies (bread and a few biscuits for the tea). The snowfall ensured it was a lonely journey – there wasn’t a sinner out and even the main road across which the shop is located was deserted. I elected to walk to the shop to take advantage of the fact that I was going to be the first person to put footprints along the entire length of my street. It was bliss. So quiet that I could hear every satisfying, soft, crunch upon each footfall. One of the things that really struck me too was how bright everything was even late at the night. The reflection of the moonlight on the snow really lit the whole place up and quiet simply it was mesmerising. I even made a few snowballs and threw them at nothing knowing (hoping) I wasn’t being watched. It was such a welcome change from the routine my normal weeks abide by. Next morning however; chaos.

The unfortunate side-effect of snow is the reaction by the general public. The panic that sets into people when they spy white fluff falling from seemingly out of nowhere is astounding. Instead of going about their normal routine everything is dropped and the entire working population gets together and pulls out onto the roads in one huge synchronised effort. To add to the gross and instant over-population of the country’s tarmac you have the cocky eejits who think that because they can go a normal enough speed in a straight line assume the same applies for a corners. Throw in the people who like to get close enough to your back bumper to read the manufacturer’s stamp on your rear windscreen and before long you’ve exchanged a winter wonderland for a slushy nightmare filled with twisted metal, cracked bumpers and blue hands. It’s not surprising that over the course of just a few days everyone’s facebook trail morphs from happy pictures of snowman construction to a national competition over who took the longest to get home from work – the winners being the ones who didn’t get out of work in the first place apparently. 10 days later and we have a thaw upon us. Or at least an expected thaw.

The problem I have with the thaw is that while I will welcome entering and exiting my car through the driver’s door again in the mornings (my driver’s door lock is prone to a good solid freezing it seems, and I possess neither the build nor the agility to clamber over the centre console with any kind of grace) I will also miss the novelty of the country finally having a tangible and surmountable problem to tackle. While there were so many idiots on the roads determined to spoil things I saw numerous cases of goodwill and community camaraderie throughout the cold spell to help me realise that while the country appears to be on its knees, perhaps I was too quick to write us off as a nation yet. Seeing and hearing of passers-by pushing stuck cars, home-owners clearing the footpaths outside their homes, bored farmers (sure dere be’s no farmin to do in dis wedger) dragging trucks up hills in rural areas using their tractor and hearing of more than few examples of genuine compassion for others I’m going to hold off on declaring ultimate mega-doom on the nation for now.

Right now, as a citizen who has to vote in January, I feel like a sailor on a sinking ship and the last lifeboats just floated off into the distance. Some are filled with my emigrant friends heading west, others with the politicians and developers heading for a safe distance – close enough to witness the main mast disappear under the water but far enough away to not to get dragged under with the down-draft. There are others like me, plenty of them, there are plenty others still who are infinitely worse-off (I have a job at least) but I hope that somewhere along the line if or when the IMF has had its wicked way with us that we can plug the leaks and stop the whole thing from capsizing. While a week or two of snow is nothing compared to the arctic blizzard that is our financial crisis, the best I can hope for right now is that when faced with the harshest of circumstances there are enough people with enough backbone left to dig in deep and push through to the far side.

If I’m really optimistic I’d pray that those people don’t complain too much about it on the way.

I know. I shouldn’t push it.

I realise these people have a job to do, and I appreciate that job. Theirs is one where they are to ensure an ultra-modern, glass biodome isn’t erected alongside a 200-year-old classic Georgian manor. They are conservists at heart with a duty to ensure the traditional is left unblemished and the new is built to last however sometimes they forget their values. Sometimes they decide that rather than worry about what people can do, lets worry about what they can’t. And it’s this negative marking that has brought them my ire.

The first blip on the radar was their decision to allow the construction of about 40 houses in a nearby piece of land that was called a ‘field’ but more resembled a garden. A small garden. In allowing the construction of modern town houses up against 140 year old Victorian town houses my Father and other local residents had to appeal to An Bord Pleanala to have the case reviewed. Their reasons had merit, they were not trying to piss in anyone corn flakes but just didn’t want their character-filled red-brick, classical homes being blemished by someone squeezing as much concrete and glass as they could manage into the small space. An Bord Pleanala, in their omnipotence, decided that the appeal would be upheld and refused permission on the basis that, and this is the kicker; ‘The proposed development contravenes the guidelines for development set out by the local authorities”.

Let me spell that out for you. The development that was granted permission by the local council, was refused permission by the national body responsible for planning for the reason that it went against the rules set out by the local council. Suddenly the cliché of brown envelopes didn’t seem too unrealistic to me given that this development somehow got around the council’s own rules when it broke more than 2 or 3 clear stipulations.

Fast forward almost a year and I’m on the flip-side to that coin. I’m in the process of being in the process of renovating a house inherited by my better half. Our Architect, seeking to lay out a plan of attack for renovations contacted our delightful local planners for information and advise as to how to proceed to ensure compatibility with the rules. A complete removal/rebuild was out of the question due to line-of-sight issues for the driveway and other issues such as drainage. A renovation of the existing property with a view to keeping total floor area to less than 200 square metres was advised and onwards we went with that in mind.

Two months and I’ve aged six years after having to choose between various layouts of en suites/walk-in-wardrobes/door placement/chimney placement and whether corner windows or bay windows are ideal and we are ready to push ahead with our application. But, no, wait, what’s this – the same planner who advised 200 square metres has changed his tune. Suddenly our site is not large enough for a 200 square metre property. You need at the very least a half an acre of course. What are we? Stupid? Apparently so. Apparently taking the advice of the planners on board during design stage and going back to the same planner at application stage, only to learn the goalposts have been moved is perfectly normal. Apparently we should be ashamed to be aggrieved.

It begs the question as to how the same council granted permission for 4 houses to be built on a quarter of an acre but seem intent on refusing permission for an extension to one house on half an acre.

So begins Round 3 of Us vs Louth Co. Co. and I can’t help feeling like a featherweight stepping into the ring against the Klitschko brothers. Both of them.